


How Come You Don't Call Me Anymore?

by OriginalCeenote



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Emma Wears Fur, F/F, Femslash, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Interfering Parents, Kiss and Cry, Tumblr Prompt, Ugly Bridesmaid Dresses, getting back together fic, lots of comfort, post breakup AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 17:18:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10365636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: Taken from the Tumblr Post Breakup AU prompt, “It´s my [insert family relation here]´s wedding and seeing all these happy couples is killing me and all i can think about is how this was almost us” AU. (Bonus: “I know that it’s two in the morning and i’m dressed really formally and a little (a lot) bit drunk but i couldn’t stop thinking about you after my grandma asked how you were doing. Also, can i come in, it’s freezing out here!”)Two AM. Not the best time for true confessions, Ororo thinks. But what she and Emma had was never conventional.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This prompt was too good to pass up. Title comes from a Prince song, one that I love since it's just him, sitting at his piano.  
> 　  
> I'm going to remedy how badly this pairing gets overlooked. You're welcome.

Ororo was torn from a dream that involved buying a pair of killer Manolo Blahnik heels on sale for a penny by the rapping sound at her window. She grunted aloud, startled, then irritated when she realized she still had her sleeping mask on. (No wonder the room was so dark.) She freed her hand from the tangle of blankets and pried it off, and she squinted at the red, accusing digital display of her clock.  
　  
Two AM.  
　  
Just as her eyes focused enough for her to process it, she heard the rapping at her window again. Ororo groaned long and loud as she rubbed her face. Her palm found drool tracks, and she mourned the lost REM sleep like a dead pet. "Seriously?" she whined. She paused to scratch and to get her bearings, and after a moment, she saw the small pebble hit her windowpane.  
　  
"Uh, no," she muttered aloud. "Not today, pal."

This didn’t bode well. Not for anyone involved.

Ororo made an aggrieved noise, sat up, scratched and stretched, then hauled herself from bed in search of her short robe. The room was chilly, just the way she liked it, so she could pile on the soft, thick comforter and fuzzy blankets. She impatiently grabbed the handle of the box shade on her window and jerked it up, squinting as she peered outside. 

“Goddess, help me,” she muttered as Emma waved at her, face breaking into a shameless, loopy smile. The effort of waving - rather dramatically - nearly made her tumble over. She stood on Ororo’s front lawn, teetering on a pair of stiletto heels (were those Steve Madden?) and decked out in a pristine, white Blackglama coat. Ororo wanted to shout down to her that her across-the-street neighbors were big time PETA activists and come after her with red spray cans if she stood out there much longer or drew attention to herself, but Ororo guiltily, inwardly admitted that she looked _stunning_ in it.

“ARE YOU UP?” Emma called up to her, and Ororo felt a jolt of embarrassment. This wouldn’t do. She jerked her blinds shut and hurried out of the room, trotting down the stairs. Ororo knotted her sash closed with stiff, quick tugs and darted over the cold hallway floorboards to open the door. When she unlocked it and cracked it open, frigid, damp air crept inside to meet her. 

“Shit. Emma… EMMA!” Ororo hissed, trying not to raise her voice. Emma was still staring up toward her bedroom window, and Ororo raised her voice another notch.

“ORORO! Where’d you go?!?!”

“EMMA! Damn it… over _here_.” Ororo made frantic waving *flailing* motions from the doorway, mincing because of the cold, and Emma finally turned and saw her there. Her smile returned, and she jogged (sort of) across the grass in her heels and snug, sheath-cut dress.

“There you are!” Emma announced. Her tone was gleeful and bubbly, and Ororo just _couldn’t_. Her neighbors were having a field day by now. And Emma looked so comical trying to run in that get-up. Ororo fought the smile down, because she couldn’t encourage this.

Not now.

Not after everything.

And there she was, stumbling a little as her heel caught in the crack between the concrete blocks of Ororo’s walkway. “Oh!” Emma cried. “Fuck…” She limped the rest of the way up, but she was still snickering. “Did I wake you?”

“Gee. Emma. D’you _think?_ ” Ororo gave her ex her Sunday-best “I am not amused” look, but her squinting disapproval just made Emma laugh with more abandon. She stood, off-balance and hopeful at the foot of the short steps.

“I meant to tell you… I went to a wedding!”

“I’d… kind of guessed that.The dress was kind of a giveaway.” In a very un-Emma shade of buttercup yellow.

“Adrienne. She loved making me wear this. Nobody outshines the bride on her special day!” she cried, hand on her hip and shaking her finger, and Ororo heard shades of Emma’s mother, Hazel, in that declaration. Emma and her mother had never been close.

No.

Emma preferred going to Ororo’s parents’ home in Long Island instead whenever they took a long weekend together. Sweet teas, potato salad and David’s pork ribs on N’Dare’s Pottery Barn wicker chairs on their sun-dappled patio was more their speed. Emma felt more at home there, and Ororo was an only child. For Emma, the youngest of four, that was an immediate draw. Way back in the day.

_Had it been that long?_

Emma was still teetering, and she rubbed her hands over her arms. “Brrrrr. S’nippy out tonight.”

“Yes, it is,” Ororo agreed flatly. “This isn’t the best time to come-”

“Can I come in?” Emma pleaded. “I _really_ need to pee, and it’s freezing.”

“Em. How did you even get here?” Ororo demanded. She didn’t see Emma’s Lexus in the driveway, and that made her a little fearful of her safety, and of the judgment of whoever dropped her off and didn’t stay to make sure she was fine. Ororo felt a pang of worry penetrating her annoyance.

“Uber. I _Ubered_ over.” And Emma let out a silent, knee-slapping cackle. Ororo scrubbed her face with her palm. Honestly. This wasn’t happening, before the ass crack of dawn, with Ororo in her shortie pajamas, robe, doo rag and no makeup on. “Ubered. Is that a verb?”

“It shouldn’t be.”

“I _know!_ ”

“Emma Grace. It’s after two.”

“Ooh. I know. All the bars already closed. Can I come crash here?” Emma let out a loud hiccup, then grimaced. “Oh, God. Too many lemon drops.” 

“That didn’t sound-”

“Oh, God, please let me in, I beg you!”

“Oh, dear.”

With that, Ororo stepped aside and let Emma come hurtling up her steps, then grabbed her and pulled her the rest of the way inside. Emma was making questionable, gagging sounds as Ororo ran her the rest of the way to the hall bathroom, wrestling her out of the ridiculous coat as she went, undoing the small loop clasps that held it shut. Because, priorities.

They made it, by the grace of _some_ god - maybe Bacchus, Ororo reasoned; he had a sense of humor, didn’t he? - to the bathroom, and Ororo cradled the coat protectively over her arm as Emma proceeded to wretch into the toilet, banging the lid up against the tank before letting fly. Ororo winced, grimacing behind her. “That’s… wow.”

“Ugh…” It was all Emma managed before she released the rest of the alcohol, body spasming as she clung to the bowl.

“What. Did. You. Drink.”

“Urrggk. Urg.” Emma panted and spat, trying to get her bearings. “Don’t… wanna know.”

“You’re right.” Ororo guessed that it involved vodka. Fumes didn’t lie. “Oh, Lord. You’re sweating it through your pores.”

“M’sorry.”

“Em. This is extreme.”

“You weren’t there.” Emma reached for the toilet handle, batting at it futilely before she succeeded in flushing it. She breathed heavily over the swirling bowl, and Ororo wisely backed out of the bathroom, going to hang up Emma’s coat. There was no question about where she was staying tonight. _This morning_ , an unhelpful voice in her brain mentioned.

_Oh, shut up._

She came back to Emma leaning over the edge of the bathtub, hair trailing over the enamel. “Babe. Emma. No. Not there. C’mon.”

“Ugh.”

“I know. C’mon.” Ororo was chilled and wanted to bury herself back in her coccoon of blankets, but she needed to get Emma settled first.

That left the question of where. 

Ororo bent and peeled Emma’s limp form off the edge of the tub and shouldered her up, leading her out of the bathroom. “Take those things off?”

“Take what off?”

“The shoes. We’re not doing stairs in those.”

“Nnnngggh… no stairs.”

“Yes, stairs.”

“Nooooooooooo…”

“Yessssssssssss. Yes, yes. Up we go.”

“Room won’ quit movin’.”

“That’s you, sweetie.” Emma managed to crank on the cold tap and scoop up a handful of water to rinse her mouth. They staggered upstairs after Ororo convinced Emma to kick off the ridiculous heels, and Emma’s weight sagged against her. Her skin felt hot beneath Ororo’s palm, through the slick satin and chiffon of her bridesmaid dress. The color was hideous, but the cut flattered Emma’s graceful curves. Ororo’s traitorous body reminded her of the last wedding they’d gone to together, and how it felt to huddle at the table, leaning on each other and indulging in champagne and cake, shoes kicked off under the table from too many chicken dances and conga lines. Just relieved to be done with the planning and anticipation of going to the wedding and sharing that moment in the bride and groom’s future, fraught with unknown challenges and struggles. The mere concept scared Ororo to death.

But that hadn’t stopped them from watching the bride and groom wistfully, wrapped up in each other and radiating joy. Kitty and Peter were the perfect odd couple, and it made Ororo and Emma feel wishful. And in some ways, maybe it sharpened some of their uncertainties. 

They navigated the rest of the stairs, and Emma made them pause for a second. “Whoo. Dizzy.”

“Still sick?”

“Not… yet.”

“Right. I’m going to lie you down and figure this out. All right?”

“Where we goin’, anyway?” Emma slurred, frowning at Ororo in confusion.

“My room.”

Emma let out a loud sigh. “Don’ haf’ to.”

“You hate my couch. Remember?”

Emma made a sputtering sound. “Fine.”

“All right, then.” 

And Ororo felt a little disappointed at how dismayed Emma looked as they entered the bedroom. Her light blue eyes drifted around, taking in the familiar surroundings. Except for one detail.

“You changed the sheets.”

“I wanted something different.” The comforter and sheet set were new, done in soft shades of sage green and lavender floral print. It had been money well spent. The old bedding set had brought back too many memories. The periwinkle blue sheets recalled memories of Emma sprawled in them, blonde hair spread across the pillows and her soft, fair skin washed in sunlight. Emma sat down heavily on Ororo’s vanity seat, limp and exhausted. Thankfully she hadn’t noticed that the old photographs of the two of them were missing from Ororo’s dresser and the wall above her bed. It hurt too much to see those, too. It hurt to mourn who they weren’t anymore.

Ororo moved around the room, pulling out drawers and withdrawing a nightie, opening her cosmetics box, and finding a box of Kleenex and her jar of cold cream. Emma scraped her hair back from her face and rubbed her nape. “Got any tea?”

“I was going to make some once we got you settled.”

“You don’t have to settle me.” There was something arch in Emma’s tone.

“You’re visiting me in yellow satin and I found you screaming at me from my lawn.”

Emma sighed and rolled her eyes. Or, maybe they just drifted shut in pained exhaustion. That was more apt. “Just don’t blame me for the dress.”

“It’s not even a spring wedding,” Ororo muttered.

“Silly bint wouldn’t be talked out of it, either. She’s getting back at me for seventh grade.”

“You always say that whenever Adrienne gets her nose out of joint.”

“It’s _always_ out of joint. Ten thousand dollars worth of rhinoplasty didn’t help. She’s still mad that I told John Proudstar that she wet the bed until that year.”

“That was kinda nasty, kiddo.”

“Karma’s a bitch,” Emma chuckled. “And she makes you wear a yellow dress. Oh, God, I’m burning this rag tomorrow.”

“Take it off, then.”

Emma looked up at her helplessly. “Help me?” Ororo had never been able to resist that look.

“Lean over a little.” Ororo watched her lean - it was more like listing - and she reached for the tricky metal tab of the invisible zipper. She despised that kind, they always got caught. Ororo managed to pull it down without any disasters, and Emma breathed a sigh of relief. Ororo’s breath caught at the smooth expanse of bare skin, at the perfection of Emma’s smooth, graceful back. Ororo’s hand hesitated just above her tantalizing skin; there were faint impressions from the seams of the dress that she longed to smooth away.

She wasn’t wearing a bra. Ororo backed away from temptation and looked away. She handed her the nightie. “Knock yourself out. I’m gonna go make… tea.” Emma took the nightgown, and their fingers grazed. Ororo failed to ignore the little frissons of warmth that ran through her body at that brief touch. She hurried out, ignoring Emma’s calls.

“You don’t have to, if it’s too much trouble!”

“It’s not,” she called back as she ran downstairs.

She needed to clear her head for a minute. It was too much. She was too close. The old feelings and memories simmered under the surface, and Ororo was _weak_. She went into the kitchen and busied herself assembling cups, a box of tea bags, a honey bear bottle and her plastic two-gallon tank of spring water. She filled two mugs, one of which was Emma’s favorite that read “Don’t make me release the flying monkeys!” It was hard to be that close to Emma and not touch her. Ororo caught the faint scent of her Chanel perfume and the product she used on her hair. She missed running her fingers through it and brushing it for her before they went to bed. It was the little things that were so sweet and that Ororo missed the most. Reading with Emma’s head on her lap on the couch. The way they used to snuggle together for those last, precious seconds in the morning before facing the day, nagging each other about who had to get up first. The way Emma would always say, “Here, taste this” and practically shove the bite of whatever it was toward Ororo’s mouth, whether it was meant to be delectable or horrible; she never clarified her intent, always only wanting to see her reaction. The fun was in the surprise, Ororo thought bitterly.

Emma was such a pain in the ass. Ororo missed her more than air.

By the time Ororo brought up the two steaming mugs, Emma was standing - weaving a little - by her bureau, removing her necklace and bracelets. The nightgown only reached to mid-thigh on Emma, too; they were nearly of a height. Emma’s hair was still pinned in its updo, and it looked incongruous against the backdrop of the simple cotton shift and her naked limbs. 

“I’ve been waiting for this all day. You’re an angel.”

“You were planning to come here all day?” Ororo raised her brow.

Emma shook her head. “No, silly. I just mean… this. It’s nice to sit down somewhere quiet, where no one’s asking me when I’ll get myself a job where I don’t have to travel so much and settle down.”

“Ah.”

“Adrienne and Mom were having a _field day_ with that all night. There weren’t enough martinis in the world to make that conversation anymore appealing.”

“Still seems like you gave it the college try.”

“I drank less in college than I drank tonight.” Emma sipped her tea, made a face, then fiddled with the honey bear. She drizzled a generous amount into her cup in lazy circles. “Grandma Anabel asked about you.” Ororo paused in sipping from her own cup. “About us, actually.”

“She was always blunt.”

“Nothing like walking right up to the elephant in the room and asking it to play cards.”

“She means well.”

“She thinks she does.”

And it hurt, still. Talking about it like it had been long ago and that it mattered less.

“She always liked you,” Emma admitted. “More than anyone else that I brought home.”

“What does that say about everybody else th-”

“Stop,” Emma hissed. “Don’t? Please?”

Ororo set down her tea on the vanity. “You’re not going to sleep with your hair like that, are you?”

“No. It’d be like sleeping on rocks. Do you have an elastic, or something…”

Emma’s voice trailed off as Ororo walked up behind her where she sat, and she felt her long, gentle fingers moving over her hair, finding the merciless bobby pins. One by one, she slid them loose, extracting them from the sprayed, teased arrangement, and Emma’s updo gradually collapsed, expanding and falling down around her face and neck. Emma released a ragged sigh and let her head list forward. “Oh, God. That’s heavenly. Bless your soul.”

“How much spray did they use? It’s going to make it dry,” Ororo murmured in annoyance as she continued to remove the pins and finger-comb Emma’s hair. Unbound, it hung down between her shoulder blades. The last time they spoke, Ororo had it cut into a layered pageboy that barely hung past her jaw. 

“It was Paul Mitchell,” Emma argued.

“Might as well just dip your head in cement,” Ororo retorted. She reached for the brush on the side table and began to tug it through Emma’s hair out of habit, putting aside her earlier promise not to touch her, but the lure of that hair was too appealing. It was her weakness, and a favorite indulgence when the two of them craved intimacy. Ororo gathered her hair in her loose grip and ran it through the waves and tangles, taming the soft waves and letting the bristles massage Emma’s tortured scalp. Emma’s shoulders drooped, bleeding away the tension, and she leaned back against Ororo incrementally while she brushed. 

“Mom and Dad liked you, too. They still ask about you.”

“No, they didn’t.”

“They did,” Emma insisted.

“They’re glad that I’m out of the picture.”

“No, they’re not!”

“They never thought I was right for you.”

“Uh. Last I knew, their opinion didn’t matter for _shit_.”

“Not to _you_.”

Emma reached up and caught Ororo’s hand before she could stroke it through her hair again, and she enclosed Ororo’s wrist in her grip. Ororo’s pulse jumped beneath her thumb. “It shouldn’t have mattered to you.”

Ororo swallowed. “Well, it did.”

Emma shook her head, pinning her with her gaze. “Why?”

“Because, Emma.” Ororo’s voice was impatient, begging Emma to consider what she thought was obvious. “I can’t function like that. I can’t… be around them and wonder if they’re planning out your next relationship and searching for your next girlfriend who’s nothing at all like me.”

“It’s not up to them to plan who I have a relationship with. Is that what you thought?”

“Think,” Ororo corrected her. Even now.

Emma was frowning, and her grip on Ororo’s wrist tightened when Ororo tried to pull away. “Don’t.”

“No. We’re having this talk. Ororo. Look at me.”

“Get ready for bed. I’m going to get you some water, too. And some ibuprofen. You’re gonna feel like hell tomorrow.”

“I’ll be fine. It _is_ tomorrow.”

“I’m still getting you water.”

“I already have tea. Don’t walk away from me. Stay put. Talk to me.”

“We’ve already talked about this.”

“I didn’t like how that talk went.”

Ororo stared down at Emma’s hand wrapped around her wrist. Emma reflexively stroked Ororo’s skin with her thumb. “We said what needed to be said.”

“You mean the part where you told me you were breaking up with me?”

“Where I explained why it wasn’t going to work so you wouldn’t have to worry anymore about all the reasons why we were wrong for each other.”

“What were they, again?”

Ororo gave her an exasperated sigh. “Really? This, again?”

“Remind me.” And Emma’s eyes were still tired, but now they were sparking with irritation, and a new energy that didn’t bode well for the two of them getting any rest.

“I really don’t want to.”

“You really should.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve been struggling with this for a while, now. That’s what happens when someone breaks up with you, ducks. You start running everything back on a slow reel, back through all the bumpy parts, and you ask yourself how it was your fault.” Ororo’s stomach knotted into a hot, sour ball. 

“Nobody likes reruns.”

“Please, tell me what I did, darling. Explain it to me so I can understand. I need this.”

“No. You don’t. We don’t have to do this.”

“Was it something my family said?”

“No.” Not in so many words. Not just one episode or incident. The destruction of what they had was gradual. Just a few threads unraveling at a time until they had torn apart.

But the things they _had_ said planted that hard, bitter little seed.

Hazel and Winston Frost had certain expectations for their family, and they moved in very specific circles. Everything their daughters did reflected on them; they abandoned hope for Emma’s brother, Christian, after he ran off and joined a burlesque cabaret, then moved in with a drag queen in her tiny Monaco flat. Cordelia was the entertainment lawyer. Adrienne was the professor at an exclusive girls’ prep school in Connecticut. Emma pushed the envelope as the content director of an educational software company. Hazel’s friends always exclaimed over how bright all of the Frost children were, but their tones always grew more hushed when they mentioned Emma, how she excelled in such a “masculine” field… and was she still seeing that designer, the one with the hair?

Ororo Munroe, a woman of innumerable talents. Kind. Funny. Beautiful. Caring. Gentle. An IQ of 140. And they’d reduced her to “the one with the hair.”

By contrast, N’Dare and David didn’t mourn the son-in-law they’d always imagined when their daughter came out. They didn’t bat an eyelash when Emma turned out to be White; David judged them a bit more harshly when he discovered that Winston drove a Hummer. 

When Adrienne first came into the house, glowing, with her fiance in tow and a garishly large diamond weighing down her hand, Ororo felt Emma’s family’s eyes on them, measuring their youngest daughter and questioning her choices. Where was her investment banker fiance? Where were the grandchildren they could expect to be blessed with in one-point-five years? Ororo balked at Hazel’s unnannounced visits to Emma’s condo, where she would constantly try to change things around. “Stop using Tide. Have some of my Melaleuca detergent. It’s organic.” Or, “I bought you these wood blinds. They’d look nicer on that front window than those curtains you have there now.” Hazel Frost always had an opinion, and it never seemed to favor Ororo, or what Ororo and Emma had together. 

She couldn’t appreciate the vibrant, lively colors of their furnishings and artwork - much of it was Ororo’s - or the framed photos of the two of them on different vacations they had taken. Parasailing. Zip-lining. The Grand Canyon. Niagara Falls. Their cruise to Greece. Magic Mountain. Costa Rica. Hazel envied them their freedom and the richness of all they’d experienced together, yet she had an oldest daughter who was determined to avoid commitment at all costs. Her second daughter had the right idea, but it was her youngest who gave Hazel fits. Emma had _so much potential_.

 

And now, there they were. Emma held onto Ororo’s wrist, staring up into her face. “Please, tell me if it was something I did. Or that I didn’t do, baby.”

Ororo’s eyes shifted away, and she shook her head. “I’d really rather turn in. We don’t have to do this.”

“Do you even miss me?”

Emma’s voice was small and uncertain, and Ororo’s resolve was hanging by a thin thread. 

Ororo’s mouth struggled with the words. “I don’t _not_ miss you.”

And Emma’s smile bloomed, and Ororo steeled herself against it, but Emma. Damn her. She wouldn’t let go of Ororo, and she lifted Ororo’s palm to her cheek. Her skin was so soft and flushed, and all of the old feelings threatened to rise up from inside Ororo. Her self-control was dwindling. 

“Can I pretend that was a ‘yes?’”

“Em.”

“I’m sorry.” Emma’s voice cracked, and her eyes were glistening, and Ororo felt so much remorse for causing that wrecked look on Emma’s face. “Whatever it was… whatever I did, I’m sorry…” 

“You don’t have to-”

“Yes, I do,” she sobbed. “I do, because you walked away from me. And there’s no way in hell I could’ve let that happen if I hadn’t ruined what we had.”

“You didn’t. Sweetie, you didn’t.” The tears spilled down Emma’s cheeks, and Ororo finally let her hand relax. She cradled the side of Emma’s face, and Emma leaned into it, kissing her palm. “You didn’t ruin anything. I just. We.”

And the words died in Ororo’s mouth when Emma collapsed against her. She buried her head in Ororo’s chest and cried, and Ororo didn’t stop herself from holding her. She stroked her hair and felt Emma’s arms coiling around her waist.

“I’m so lost…”

Ororo’s arms tightened around her as she realized that Emma was speaking her own thoughts.

“I don’t sleep anymore. I go home, and the whole room just feels so goddamned empty without you in it. So does my bed. And you’re not across from me at the table in the morning, putting all that goddamned sugar in your coffee or burning the eggs.” Emma liked runny yolks. Ororo’s hard scrambles were a constant source of contention in their relationship. To each their own. “I need to hear you breathing behind me at night. I need your awful techno music and fifties oldies in my car when we make road trips and to hear you try to sing along.”

Ororo’s eyes pricked, and she found herself nodding. She just kept stroking Emma’s hair, and the long line of her back through the borrowed nightshirt. 

“Adrienne’s awful mother-in-law asked me when it was going to be my turn. I told her. That I. Had to take that up with you.” Each halting gulp of air punctuating her words made Ororo hold onto Emma more tightly. 

“I’m not the only one with a say in that.” And Ororo’s cheeks felt chilled; she realized that they were wet, that the tear tracks were cooling on her cheeks, making them clammy. 

“Why did you leave me?”

“Baby. I. I don’t know, anymore. I just. I wanted to give you a _chance_.”

“A chance? For what?”

“I don’t know…”

And when Emma leaned back and looked up, Ororo’s face was screwed up in bitter sobs, ugly crying and wiping at her nose with her nightgown sleeve. “Just. To let you. Have.”

And she couldn’t get the words out. Because they felt wrong. Because she would never be able to explain that _everything that I gave you never felt like it was enough, and I’m so goddamned afraid they were right_. 

Those were Emma’s hands wiping away her tears, and she let her arms snare her again, letting herself breathe in Emma’s scent, wrapping herself around her precious heat and softness and finally allowing herself to come _home_. Ororo let Emma hold her, and her ankle hooked itself around Ororo’s lower calf possessively, with so much need.

“Your skin’s cold,” Emma complained.

“I really wanna turn in, sweetie. I need my bed.”

“Can I stay with you?” Ororo nodded and hummed affirmatively, but she kept stroking Emma’s hair.

“Let me get you that Motrin. You’re going to be _torn up_ if I don’t.”

“Okay.”

Ororo leaned down and kissed her temple, lingering over it. “Get under the covers, okay?”

“Tuck me in?”

That had been a ritual, too. Emma, the constant traveler, would arrive home late or spend much of the night typing up expense reports, and Ororo would wait up, even if she had an early day the next morning, because she couldn’t sleep without Emma beside her. She enjoyed the process of settling Emma in for the night. And one of the sweetest parts was laying the covers over her and tucking  them in at the foot of the mattress and pulling them up to Emma’s chest. That moment when Emma would give her that drowsy, grateful smile made Ororo melt. Emma was home. Safe. Warm. Content.

And home with Ororo.

Emma was soon swathed in lavender and sage green sheets, and buried under a mountain of blankets. Ororo leaned down and found the clasps of Emma’s earrings that she forgot to remove. She took them out and laid them on the vanity and kissed Emma’s cheek. “I’ll be back,” she told her hoarsely.

“Hurry.” Emma’s eyes followed Ororo out of the room. Ororo ran and fetched the pills and a glass of water. Emma sat up just enough to gulp them down, and she collapsed into the pillows. “Urrggghhh… no more martinis.”

“At least your makeup was on point. You looked beautiful,” Ororo mused. She took one of her makeup pads and daubed it in some lotion, then swabbed it over Emma’s closed lids. She dipped another and gently cleaned her cheeks. They came away soiled with streaks of pinkish rouge and slate shadow. Emma looked clean-scrubbed, girlish and vulnerable, and Ororo gently kissed her bare lips before she crawled into bed beside her. Emma turned onto her side, giving Ororo her back, and Ororo fitted herself into the angles her body created, her chest pressed to Emma’s back, locking out the draft she would have had there.

And for the first time in weeks, they slept deeply, barely shifting through the night, with Ororo’s warm breath misting the nape of Emma’s neck.

*

Ororo woke up to an empty bed but the sensation of soft lips drifting over her face. And the smell of breakfast.

“Is that bacon I smell?”

“No. It’s not,” Emma said smugly. Ororo cracked open her eyes, and there was Emma. Uncharacteristically energetic for someone who came in after a bender. Eyes bright. Holding two plates. “It’s ‘We’re back together and I’m never letting you go because I still love you’ bacon.”

“Then I hope you made a lot of it.”

Emma nodded. “I went one better than that.”

She set the plates atop the blankets. Ororo grinned down at their contents.

One with hard-scrambled eggs. One with dippable sunny side-ups.

“Yes. You did.”

 

Breakfast never tasted so good.

 

FIN.


End file.
